


the mess you left up in the east bedroom

by coloredink



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-09
Updated: 2011-04-09
Packaged: 2017-10-17 19:23:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/180348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coloredink/pseuds/coloredink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"We went to university together."</p>
            </blockquote>





	the mess you left up in the east bedroom

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this kinkmeme fill](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/7277.html?thread=36045421#t36045421).

Sherlock paces in circles around the corpse like a wary shark, hands behind his back, and John can practically hear the _tick tick tick_ of data retrieved, allocated, discarded. But he's silent, really, eyes flicking here and there. Once, he pauses and scans the empty room--empty but for John and Lestrade and a dead body, facedown on the dusty floorboards--with an expectant gaze; when he finds or does not find what he expected, his gaze drops and he begins his circle again, counterclockwise this time. John has his notebook open, pen poisoned over the empty page.

"No ID," said Lestrade. "We're still going through the missing persons reports for a matching description."

"Banker," Sherlock says absently. "Or something in finance, anyhow. Unmarried--never been married, but that's obvious, even you'll have seen that. Nonsmoking. Religious, or comes from a religious family. Owns a small dog, a shorthair." Abruptly, he kneels on the floor and seizes the corpse by the shoulder. Lestrade begins to protest, but Sherlock has already begun rolling the body over, exposing the face. Sherlock draws in a sharp breath and stops breathing. His eyes widen fractionally.

"What?" says John.

But it's over. Sherlock heaves the body onto its back, turning its face to the ceiling. John tries to see what caused such a reaction, but the face in question is just another face: handsome, in a pudgy sort of way, with thick dark eyebrows and a generous mouth creased with laugh lines at the corners. He doesn't look like he died violently. In fact, this is one of the nicer crime scenes they've come across.

Then he sees Sherlock's hands _tremble_ , ever so faintly, as they unbutton the man's collar.

"Sherlock," John says, leaning on the name a little. Lestrade shoots him a questioning look.

"You're distracting me," Sherlock snaps.

"Sherlock," John says again, and finally Sherlock looks up. John's certain, now, that there's something going on here, because he hasn't seen Sherlock this pale since the pool. In fact, that look just now, the one that passed from his face so quickly that John hadn't gotten a very good look at it, hadn't been dissimilar to the one he'd worn when John had stepped out in a parka, repeating the words Moriarty purred in his ear.

" _What?_ " Sherlock says, sounding profoundly irritated.

At that moment, Donovan comes running in with several pieces of paper for Lestrade. "We've IDed him," she says. "Victor Trevor. Didn't show up for work yesterday or today. Neighbour phoned in a disturbance because his dog kept barking."

John doesn't take his eyes off Sherlock. Sherlock is staring at the body. To anyone else it might look like fascination, but John knows better. He knows, with a sick, sudden certainty, why Sherlock is looking at the corpse like that.

"Oh my God," says John. "Did you _know_ him?"

Sherlock says, "No," but Lestrade is already saying, "What? Bloody hell, that's it, Sherlock, you're off the case, I can't have a conflict of interest," and then Sherlock is yelling, "No, no, I can solve it, I can _solve it!_ " and John has to restrain him with both arms from behind and drag him bodily from the room.

Sherlock calms once he's out of the room, and in fact slips into a state approaching catatonia. John takes advantage of it to lead Sherlock from the house and bundle him into a cab. Sherlock huddles in a corner of the seat and stares into space. Anderson hands John an orange blanket through the window. John shoots him a surprised smile. The cab pulls away, and John puts the orange blanket on Sherlock, who doesn't move.

"Who was he?" John asks, when he judges enough time has passed.

Sherlock jerks, then licks his lips and says, "Victor Trevor."

"How did you know him?"

"We went to university together," says Sherlock, and John is unable to get another word out of him for the rest of the cab ride home.

\-----

Sherlock retires to the couch as soon as they're inside, curling into a ball facing the back, blanket still draped crookedly across his shoulders. John makes tea, because there is no situation that cannot be solved with tea. He takes two hot mugs of it into the sitting room and takes a seat on the couch, in the space left by Sherlock's legs. He puts the tea on the coffee table.

"I made tea," he says.

Sherlock does not reply.

"Do you want to talk about it?" says John.

Sherlock does not reply.

"I think," John says carefully, "that you'd feel better if you talked about it."

"Is that what your therapist said?" Sherlock snarls, and falls silent.

John drinks his tea and tries not to feel hurt. He fails.

Finally, Sherlock says, "We weren't lovers, if that's what you're wondering." John holds his tongue and waits for Sherlock to continue. "But he was kind to me after his dog bit me. We became friends. But his father disapproved, and eventually he broke it off."

"Why would his father disapprove?" John is surprised into asking.

"It may have had something to do with the affair I deduced he was having." Sherlock shifts on the couch, wraps his arms tighter around himself. "I probably shouldn't have mentioned it at dinner. But Victor _did_ ask. He liked to show me off. But I was young. I didn't know as much about social convention as I do now."

Good grief.

"In any case, Victor began to avoid me. I didn't see him again until today." Sherlock suddenly rolls onto his back, stretching his legs out until his feet are in John's lap. He stares at the ceiling and says, "I could have solved it. Still can."

"Lestrade won't let you," John reminds him. "Conflict of interest."

Sherlock snorts. "As if I'd let emotion cloud my judgement."

"It doesn't matter what you think," says John. "It matters what a judge thinks."

"I don't think," Sherlock snaps. "I _know_." But he falls silent. John drinks his tea.

Sherlock abruptly pulls his feet from John's lap, knocking his elbow and nearly causing him to spill his tea in the process, and catapults himself into a crouch in the sofa. "You can't ever do that to me," he hisses. "You can't. You won't. Ever."

"What?" John asks. His breath is stuck in his throat. Sherlock's face is inches away, and his eyes are hard and glittering. He's seen him like this only once before, when he took aim at a semtex vest and fired. "Do what?"

"Turn up like that," says Sherlock. "A body for me to examine. Don't ever."

"All right," says John. "All right, Christ. I won't. Now drink your tea," he adds. "It's getting cold."

"It's cold already," says Sherlock, but he drinks it anyway.


End file.
